POETRY.
PLOUGHING.
awe on the crest of the upland a ploughman stands with his horses, Figures of sculptured bronze they appear on the saffron sky- line; Low is the sun in the west, but a magical shimmer of sunlight Sprinkles with dust of gold the rich brown earth of the farrows.
Morn and noon had I watched him patiently guiding the ploughshare, Straining muscle and nerve as he urged his team to their labours ; Once when a cuckoo sang he laughed and jingled his money ; Once when a bicycle passed, like a flash on the dusty highway. Turned with a look of envy ; then cracked his whip at the horses.
Musical were the heavens above and the hedgerows around. him; Silver chiming of sky-larks, fluting of thrushes and blackbirds Canopied earth with delight, curtained her chambers with sweetness.
Mingled with other notes was the voice of an emulous starling, Vain of his bad imitation of more original minstrels.
Then in the joy of his heart the ploughman whistled a chorus, Whereto I fashioned a song in praise of ploughing and reaping :— " Hail to the plough and the oxen! Hail to the Lord of the ploughshare !
Mil to the tamer of Earth ! Hail to the builders of Home ! Huntsmen of old were our sires, or herdsmen seeking for pasture, Hither and thither they fared to and fro in the land; Never the summer found them where the winter had left them, Hardly their tents were pitched ere, struck once more, they were gone.
But with the plough there came an end of their pitiful wand'rings,
For with the plough there came clearing of forest and fen ; Cottage and hamlet and village arose for fixed habitations, Binding with cords of love man to the place of his birth. There they had played as children, there they had courted and
wedded; Dear was each well-known field, dear each familiar tree. There were the graves of their fathers, there should their own receive them Back to the earth they loved, when they might till it no more."
Thus I feigned him to sing; but he intent on his labour Wasted no word on song, nor spoke except to his horses. Now at the close of day he stands erect on the upland, Modelled against the sky, a figure of labour triumphant Over the subject earth, and scans the field he has conquered. All the fair hillside is ribbed with his long, straight furrows ; Soon shall it break into green, pierced by a million corn- shoots; Soon! too soon! shall it wave with fall ears ripe for the reaping.
Aye ! though the day was hard and his frame is weary with toiling, Surely his heart is glad, and the spirit within him rejoices.
R. H. Lew.
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